


you're a vision

by guardianoffun



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: M/M, alcohol as social lubricant, eurovision as a plot device
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:17:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21565081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guardianoffun/pseuds/guardianoffun
Summary: 'We made out. People cheered.'Eight drink Morse might be staring. At Fancy. And those lips. Hmm. There's suddenly something in his living room far more interesting than some stupid song contest.
Relationships: George Fancy/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 7
Kudos: 20





	you're a vision

**Author's Note:**

> excuse bad pun title lol
> 
> a challenge from imagination therapy to write morse/fancy with the 'We made out. People cheered.' prompt lol, this was what i came up with. im working on the hc that fancy in general has fancied morse for forever. morse tolerates him, but is not about to refuse a snog. 
> 
> this is so dumb lol hope yall enojy its plotless for the most part

Endeavour Morse was many things, but he liked to think a hypocrite was not one of them. But he had very distinct memories of berating Fancy for breezing into the station with a stomach full of booze and little else, and here he was, one afternoon, on his third pint before signing off. He reassured himself the next time he stood he’d ask for the phone and sign off, to assuage his guilt. Then it didn’t matter how many pints he had, right? It was a Friday after all, a long, dreadfully dull Friday, that looked to turn into a dreadfully dull weekend, so why not get just a little shitfaced beforehand? Content with his little plan, his hand drifted to his glass, and his eyes roamed the paper spread out in front of him. 

He was mulling over six across when the door across the pub swung open and the all too familiar sound of his colleagues filing in filled the place. And here he had been planning a solo-session. He could feel Strange’s eyes on him already, so pressed his face closer to the paper and scrawled in his answer to the next clue. Peering over his shoulder he was granted a few more moments of peace as trio which consisted of Strange, Fancy and Trewlove headed for the bar. Morse slunk further into his bench seat in the hopes it might swallow him up; he was so  _ not _ in the mood for socialising. 

He snapped the paper up, using it as a shield, which worked for maybe a minute or so, before it was pulled down by the sneaky hand of constable Fancy. He had the most irritating grin plastered across his face, and was eyeing up the modest collection of glasses scattered across the table. Morse cursed the barmaid who hadn’t been past in the hour or so he’d been in here. 

“Routine inquiries?” Fancy asked, far too smug as he dropped down beside him on the bench. Morse bit back the urge to slide further away. 

“I’m off duty,” he snapped back, folding the paper away as Trewlove and Strange appeared opposite them. “Or good as,’ he muttered as he threw back another mouthful. Trewlove gave him a smile as she sat down, and by the sounds of it, kicked Fancy in the ankles, which brought a hint of a smile to Morse’s face. He turned his attention to Strange, for a moment. 

“Get anywhere on the break ins?” Strange shrugged, a long sigh suggesting that no, he had no further leads on the spate of recent break ins at the colleges. Thus sparked a conversation on the current caseload of Cowley, Morse able to hover on the outskirts of it whilst Strange grumbled and Trewlove regaled them with a tale of her recent run in with a gang of criminal old ladies - knitters  _ and  _ kleptomaniacs it seemed. 

Fancy had just piped up about his latest missing persons case when Morse started on his next drink, and the sergeant couldn't help but roll his eyes. 

“You at least ask for a picture this time?” Fancy turned a little pink at that, waving his hand dismissively.

“That was one time Morse-” 

“It’s common sense, Fancy-” the pair of them turned, and Morse couldn’t disguise the sudden childish urge to pick a fight with Fancy. 

“Oi, leave off Morse,” Strange stepped in before he could have his fun though. Trewlove rolled her eyes, looking from Morse to a rather deflated looking Fancy. Morse pulled a face, it wasn’t  _ his  _ fault Fancy was well, a bit of an idiot. Even if he did try, things never panned out quite right. 

“I’m sure you’re doing great, George,” Trewlove said diplomatically, reaching a hand out to pat at Fancy’s hand. Morse rolled his eyes as the pair of them cooed over Fancy. It was like the bloke couldn’t handle criticism by himself. Morse was only doing what was necessary when he berated him. He’d never learn otherwise, even Thursday had said as much, or near enough. Then again, Thursday had also said he was too hard on Fancy sometimes. It was like he couldn’t please anyone anymore. Now a little bitter, Morse let the conversation wash over him as he made his way through his pint. 

When he eventually tuned back in, after the conversation turned from work to general chit-chat, they were apparently planning something. 

“You could always come back to ours, right Morse?” Strange said, fixing him with a forceful look. Morse hadn’t the foggiest what he was asking. 

“Hmm?” Fancy snorted, so Morse glared at him, pointedly ignoring the fact Trewlove was smirking behind her hand. 

“I was just saying, these two could come over if they want, it’s Eurovision tonight.” Morse forced his jumbled brain to pick out what little he had on the show, and grimaced. “You actually watch that?” Trewlove shrugged. 

“It’s a right laugh,” she said, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Come on Morse, it’ll be fun.” At that pint Strange waved a hand. 

“I mean, I’m gonna watch it either way, and these two are invited. You don’t really have a choice matey, not if you want to use the living room.” Morse sighed, knowing it was true. He insisted he would stay for one more drink before they could drag him away, and so by the time they fell out of the pub and onto the street, Morse was perhaps a little more wonky than anticipated. 

* * *

Somehow, even in his own flat, Morse ended up slouched next to Fancy. Trewlove, as the only lady, was gifted the nicest side of the sofa - Strange’s, with it’s nicer cushions and fewer tea stains. Strange downgraded to Morse’s spot, leaving Morse and Fancy relegated to the floor if they wanted to watch the telly. They had amassed a small pile of rations to see them through the whole night, plenty morse of Morse’s bitter, Trewlove’s wine and a fairly decent spread from Strange in the food department. Even Morse found himself indulging in a slice or two of carrot cake. 

Despite his protests, Morse found himself sucked into the singing a little bit. It wasn’t  _ good  _ by any stretch, but almost so bad it was good. Car-crash telly, Trewlove called it. Morse didn’t enjoy it per se, but he also couldn't quite look away. 

Regardless, it certainly wasn’t the seductive tones of Cliff Richard, that had got Morse feeling a little soft. Perhaps the inadvisable number of drinks, or the unusual warmth of four bodies in such a small space, or the smell of whatever Strange had impulsively decided he was going to start cooking - perhaps it was a bit of all of it. But Morse was feeling soft, limbs heavy in the nicest of ways. He had long since lost his jacket, and tie, though it looked like Fancy had added both to a small bundle of discarded clothing that he was using as a cushion as he slouched against the side of the sofa. 

Morse found himself watching Fancy for longer than intended. The night had long since fallen, and much of the flat still lay in darkness. It was only the lamp in the corner and the glow of the telly lighting the living room, and it made strange shadows pass across Fancy’s face. In some lights it made him look sharper, the line of his face more angular, in others he was softer, boyish and sweet. Distantly some alarm bell sort of rung for Morse, the idea of Fancy seeming in any way  _ sweet  _ a cause for concern - but he was, quite frankly, in too good a mood to listen. He quite liked watching Fancy, he decided. 

He liked watching the way his fingers tapped out a rhythm on the neck of his bottle, the way he curled a finger absently through a strand of hair. The smile that danced across his lips when the music hit a certain way. He actually quite liked him as he slid down the sofa, and then righted himself, leaning perhaps a little closer to Morse than before. 

When Trewlove clambered over the pair to visit the loos, Fancy leant away and Morse felt the loss of warmth quite keenly. He had gotten quite used to it, and he glanced up, searching for it once again. Bleary eyes stared for a second, and then Fancy’s face was there, again, suddenly a lot closer. 

“You alright Morse?” 

Now Morse thought about it, he really was quite handsome, wasn’t he? Really, it was quite lovely the way his head tilted to one side, and his lips quirked like that. Morse wondered if they were soft, those lips. 

“M’fine,” he mumbled back, finding himself stretching forward, into the empty space between them. His wondering had becoming the urge to know. Thank the many drinks Fancy had had too, he thought as the pair of them inched closer together. Or maybe, Morse realised, thank all those little smiles, all those lingering looks Fancy had been giving him, those kind laughs. Perhaps the need to close this gap wasn’t quite so one sided as he thought. 

In the soft hum of the telly, on the hard floor or Morse’s flat, Fancy reached a hand out and cupped his jaw. Morse fell into it, let himself be guided the last of the way, to let his lips catch Fancy’s. 

Soft, like he’d thought. Soft and sweet, and oh - clever. Not quite the innocent young man he looked; Fancy kissed like a tease. He ran kisses along his lips, down to his chin and up to his cheek, before letting Morse take control. He bit down gently on his bottom lip as payback, and Fancy laughed at that, a low, throaty sound that sent warmth flooding through Morse. He used it as an excuse to press his tongue to Fancy, to let their kiss turn long and thorough. 

Fancy’s hands wound up in his hair, locking him in a grip stronger than Morse would have expected, not that he minded. Morse let his own hands push Fancy back, up against the side of the sofa. He pushed his way onto Fancy’s lap, pinning him by the braces to the chair. He was lost in the sensation of Fancy for a while, of hands on him, lips on him, of the warm, solid presence of a man in his arms. It was very, very nice. 

Then a cry split the silence, and Fancy jumped beneath him. Reluctantly Morse pulled back, and the pair of them stared at where Trewlove had re-entered the room. She was giggling to herself, hands clapping. 

“You  _ do  _ like him! I knew it!” she turned and hollered through the door. “Strange! They did it!” There was a cheerful cry from the kitchen, followed by Strange’s face appearing in the doorway. He shot Morse a thumbs up, which Fancy apparently found funny, because he laughed against Morse’s neck. She tottered back over to the sofa, carefully climbing over them and ruffling Morse’s hair as he did so. 

“It’s nice to see you two getting along finally,” she murmured, more to herself than anything, as her focus drifted back to the telly. She seemed not to mind their compromising position, nor the fact Fancy was now tracing his way up Morse’s neck with his lips. The sensation was hypnotic, and Morse let himself succumb to Fancy’s movements. No surprise really, that someone with a mouth on him like that would be so good at doing, well  _ this.  _

Morse was quite sure that when they woke the next morning, probably laid across each other on the sofa - again, Trewlove got Strange’s room, Strange got Morse’s - they might regret this. There was the chance they would neither remember it too, with the amount they had both been putting away. It wouldn’t be the first time Morse had wiped a perfectly good snog out with enough beer. As he drifted off though, his nose buried in Fancy’s hair, he thought maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t mind this happening again. 

**Author's Note:**

> i feel the need to point out eurovision was actually on a Saturday in 1969 but like,,,, i wanted to fudge to to make this work so hshhhh


End file.
